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On Running Away
In the timeframe of just about now, there's a girl. A girl living in a suburban-hipster city, just a few miles from D.C. This previously mentioned girl isn't some outrageously rebellious spirit, always destined to run away in some huge fiasco, she's a fairly normal girl. And this fairly normal girl knows she'll leave, she knows that the town won't consume her mortal soul or some bullshit that they tell you at camp. This girl does't exactly like the suburbs, or the way developers come on in and bulldoze beautiful 1930's houses to make stone giants with no heart, but it happened that way, and she deals with it, even if with every house torn apart, a little part of her soul is as well. This girl happens to be me. I live, like most teenagers, in the suburbs, big freaking whoop. The schools are great, and I have friends who love me, but there's no real nature here, no character, just giant houses made in 2013. There is, however, a path. Not some fairytale choose-your-own-adventure magic path, but a path. It cuts through the only forest in the area. It heads to a nature center, where there's an owl that hoots at me and there are two logs that've fallen across the stream that I climb on. It's not the most beautiful path, or the most exciting path, but it's fun to tread along when I run away. Yes, I run away occasionally. Not to be a drama queen, or to make the lives of my parents a literal hell, but to run away. Usually I'm only gone an hour or two, and I climb the same rocks and dip my toes in the same water in the same stream every time. Variety is the spice of life, but what can you expect from the suburbs? I run away to be away, to be in the forest, to not worry. The owl at the nature center honestly does not, and will never give a shit about your health project about obesity. It's an owl. I also love the feeling of running, but only casually, like I'm in some Vance Joy music video or something. As said before, I'm //fairly// normal. When I run away, the circumstances vary. The first time, I was kinda pissed at my mom, so I told her I'd be gone for a bit, and she told me it was fine as long as I had my phone and such. So, I packed a bag. Using the reversible and poorly stitched drawstring bag I had finished in Home-Ec that day, I threw in a box of my good colored pencils, my sketchbook, and various other thing I thought I'd need to be some spectacular adventurer. I was about to head out and swing the door dramatically, but I realized my phone was near death. So, being the adventurer that I am, sat back on the couch for a solid twenty minutes, watching House Hunters on TV, and waiting for my phone to charge. When I was finished, I grabbed my phone, and left, simple. i did what adventuring I needed to do, and I was back in time for dinner with a fresh head. The second time was not as peaceful. My grandparents were over, we were eating pizza. I was done, I wanted dessert. As usual, my mom said it was fine, and she asked for me to bring two slices of pizza back as well. No problem. I open the fridge, grab whipped cream to make a sundae, and go to the two incredibly greasy pizza boxes, can in hand. I plate the slices, then attempt to walk to the counter. The plate tilts, the pizza fans, along with my pride. I thought it was no big deal, there was another full box left, right? Wrong. My mom marches over, grabs my arm, and lectures me about how selfish I am. If I could roll my eyes into oblivion, I probably would have done it. At that point I was incredibly done, so I threw the pizza in the trash, grab my phone, and walked out the door. I ran as fast as my tiny-ass legs could take me, sprinting down that suburban hill as iff my life depended on it. I turned the same corner, ran down the same street, no headlights or thoughts to blind me. I ran to the path as night crept up on the town, and I darted in with no fear. No fear of the night, that'll probably try to kill me some day. But it won't obviously, I'm too fucking dramatic to die in the dark. After a few minutes of climbing rocks and desperately trying to keep my feet dry, I arrived at the nature center. Nobody was there, but the motion-activated lights flicked on when I walk up the steps. Almost as if the night was waiting for me, that this was where I was supposed to be on a Thursday night at 9:37 P.M. After climbing the steps, I saw the owl. Much prettier in the night, much prettier alone. I find that most things are prettier alone, nothing to be compared to or pitted against. Of course, the stakes are much lower when considering an owl rather than a teenage girl in a suburban town. I stared at the owl for a good four minutes, then climbed back down the stone steps and ran through the path again in near-pitch black brightness. I walked far enough to be back on the street, and I peacefully walked for a good thirty seconds before a pair of headlights approach, almost like camera bulbs. Hit me with your flashbulb eyes, you know I've got nothing to hide, I thought, referencing an Arcade Fire song. As the car grew closer, I realized it's my dad's Volkswagen, with a black bike rack neatly adorning it and a hockey number sticker slapped on the side. Well, shit, I thought as my dad said to "Get in the fucking car." I shrugged and walked around to the passenger's seat, only to find my mom sitting in it. This couldn't get any better. I opened the door and sat inside, as my dad yelled at me for what seemed like eternity, saying how they looked all over the neighborhood for me, not quite realizing that only a dumbass would have left without a phone. He just finished by the time we pulled up at our house. I don't think my grandparents quite knew what happened, as they were pretty chill the rest of the night. After a few minutes of awkwardly watching hockey in total silence, my mom offered to take me to get ice cream. I debated being dramatic and refusing, but then I came to my senses and realize it's free ice cream. I got in the car again, and my mom apologized like a normal person. Not much happened after that, we got ice cream and sat in the car in the deserted streets and it was good. So, the weird message-moral here isn't that you should be some rebel who gets in trouble for the hell of it, but please, don't be a pushover either. If somebody's being an ass, it's ok to just leave sometimes. But stay safe. ♡ Category:Stories